Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
Michelle
I haven’t had this much fun out with a big group in years.
The guys are hilarious, and the two Fords were cracking us all up by singing duet after duet. Despite all of us egging him on, Coach Garrett refuses to move from his seat, barely talking to anyone except Lauren.
Abigail and Lauren coerce me into singing a Spice Girls song with them, and then the two of them take turns singing Taylor Swift songs until Logan storms onstage and gives us a version of one of her hits that I’ll never unsee.
The cheese fries are delish, but I don’t touch any of the sangria or wine or any other cocktails.
For one, because I fully plan on going to Pilates tomorrow and I don’t want to die, and secondly, because I haven’t watched how much Tristan drank, and there is no way I’m letting him drive if he’s been drinking.
By the time our reservation slot ends, it’s past midnight and I’m hoarse from talking and singing along with everyone.
“You ready to go?” Tristan elbows me in the side, looking down at me with bleary brown-and-green eyes.
“She doesn’t want you driving,” Luke tells him. Abigail hangs off his arm, chomping on a now-cold fry and grinning broadly. “Give her your keys.”
“I’m not drunk. I’m just tired.” Tristan scratches the dark blond stubble at his jaw but shrugs, digging his keys out of his back pocket and handing them to me. “But if it makes you feel safer…”
I eye them warily.
“You can handle the Bronco. She’s easier to drive than you think.”
I nod. “I’m not worried about driving your car,” I tell him.
“Then let’s go,” he says, once again draping his arm around my shoulders. He leans more heavily on me than before, and where I expect to cringe at the smell of beer on his breath, there’s nothing.
My entire body tenses as we walk to the exit, my back so tight it makes me clench my teeth together.
It doesn’t take him long to clock how uncomfortable I am.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at me as we approach his truck.
“It’s nothing,” I say breezily.
He raises his eyebrows, heading for the driver’s door.
“I’m driving, remember?” I ask, somewhere between annoyed and amused.
“I know.” His grin’s lopsided and infectious. “I’m opening it for you, because I’m a gentleman.”
He steps back from the open door, bending in a dramatic bow, complete with a ridiculous twirling hand movement.
“Obviously,” I say, but I can’t quite make myself smile. I manage to climb into the truck, and he closes the door behind me before getting in the passenger side.
He’s still grinning, his gaze glued to me.
“I’m glad this place is close to my apartment,” I say, only to fill the silence. With him staring at me, it’s absurdly awkward. I turn the keys, and the engine starts smoothly. “This thing is like a fucking boat.”
Glancing in the rearview, or trying to, makes me realize I have to move everything if I stand a chance of getting us home in one piece. My fingers fumble for the mechanisms at the bottom of the seat as I try to adjust the distance to the wheel.
“That’s not where it is,” Tristan says.
Before I can stop him, he’s leaning across my lap, half out of his seat. A breath shudders out of me.
He’s so warm, and real, and right there.
I freeze as the seat begins to move, squeezing my eyes shut, so afraid that I’m going to do something I might regret, that I might let myself be out of control.
“Tell me what’s bothering you, Michelle.”
“Michelle again?” I open one eye, then the other, trying to keep my wits about me.
He snorts. “That’s your name.” A yawn cracks his jaw and I clamp my mouth shut, and he laughs at the end of his, clearly noticing how hard I’m trying to keep from catching the urge.
“I’m not used to you calling me Michelle,” I inform him primly, finally putting the big Bronco in reverse and carefully backing out.
“At this rate, I should call you Grandma,” he drawls.
“Weird kink, but okay,” I say, only half paying attention to him as I watch for traffic out the back window.
And certainly not paying attention to what’s just zoomed out of my mouth.
He chokes, and my eyes go wide as it hits me what I’ve just said.
“Ahem,” I manage, finally getting the truck in a position where I can move forward.
“Ahem?” he echoes, then lets out what can only be called a cackle.
“Nice witch laugh, Baba Yaga,” I mutter, annoyed with him for being drunk and with myself for even mentioning kinks.
It’s like I have only sex on the brain when I’m around him.
It’s almost like I’d rather have sex on my body when I’m around him.
I slam on the brakes, too hard, and we both jolt into our seat belts, which only makes Tristan laugh harder.
God, I cannot get back to my apartment fast enough. It was one thing when I was tipsy from the first cocktail, making all kinds of innuendos about taking Tristan home and letting the warm slide of alcohol wrest my inhibitions from me.
Now, though, it feels all too real, and I’m scared.
A yawn finally slips out, and I turn up the stereo, not caring what it’s blaring as long as it keeps me from embarrassing myself again.
Thank goodness I don’t live more than ten minutes away. Sure, there’s traffic, even at this time of night, but at least it’s not as heavy as it gets during rush hour.
Tristan glances over at me occasionally, and I do my best not to look anywhere but at the road.
I can feel him watching me, though, heat blazing across my skin whenever his gaze settles on me.
“Stop looking at me,” I finally manage to say at the stoplight outside my apartment.
“I just want to know how it is you can sing along to this song and not have one single care, but getting you to agree to come out to karaoke was a struggle.”
Huh? I was singing?
Oh. Oh no.
I was singing.
The song?
Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer.”
“I was concentrating on driving,” I wail, panicking. “I wasn’t even paying attention to the song.”
I jab my index finger at the stereo’s power button, and the music cuts off.
“Or it’s subliminal,” Tristan says, so nonchalant it forces me to do a double take.
No, not nonchalant.
He’s smirking.
He’s got the most mischievous little smile on his lips, and I can’t help but think Nine Inch Nails might have made a few good points.
Shit. I bang my forehead against the wheel, embarrassed and embarrassingly horny.
When was the last time I had sex?
Shit, when was the last time I even masturbated? I’ve been so busy and tired, and now, all of a sudden, my entire body seems to be trying to scream at me that the significant dearth of orgasms is a truly heinous way to live.
“Light’s green.”
Groaning, I manage to peel my face off the steering wheel and make my way to the parking garage.
Then I realize that Tristan is still with me, and I’ve driven us to my apartment, and he’s had too much to drink to safely get back to his place.
I stare at him, the Bronco parked in a spot I wasn’t sure it would fit into.
Tristan stares back, grinning like a handsome fool.
“You can’t drive home.”
“I’ll call an Uber if you’re worried, but I stopped drinking after the awards. I really am just tired. Remember? I told you why.”
Oh god. My entire lower body tightens.
“Because every time I fall asleep, I dream of you, Michelle Oxford.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I try to snap, but it comes out breathy. “There’s surge pricing. Besides, the last thing we need right now is for the Aces to have a story come out about you being drunk and disorderly in an Uber.”
“I’m never disorderly, and I’m not drunk.” He sounds annoyed, and I hate that I’ve made him sound like that.
I scoff at his words all the same.
“Usually.” He gives me that same fucking grin, his dimples igniting in his cheeks, and he’s so handsome that I have to glance away, pulling the keys out of the ignition. “Money’s not a problem for me,” he says more gently.
I narrow my eyes at him, not liking the way he says that. Like it will offend me.
So what if I don’t make as much as he does? He’s the talent.
I’m just the pencil pusher keeping the organization from flying off the rails.
It’s not like I would have made more playing professionally, like I wanted to.
“Money might not be a problem for you, but being drunk in a stranger’s car could be a problem for all of us.” It comes out stiff and unfriendly, and it has less to do with him than with the fact that even now, after all these years, I’m still furious at my body for crushing my dreams.
I’m still mad at myself.
“Hey.” A huge, calloused hand cups my chin, pulling my face toward him. “Why are you so upset? Is it because I mentioned money?”
“No.” It sounds even more sullen to my ears than I expected, and I wince.
His thumb strokes against my cheekbone, and my entire body comes to attention, focusing on that one spot.
“Is it because you think I’m drunk?” He tilts his head slightly.
“What if it is?” I ask, and he drops his hand. “You need to stay here, with me.”
Scowling, I open the door and hop out of the seat. I can’t take back those words, and I’m not sure I would if I could.
It’s smarter for him to stay here with me, where I can keep anything bad from happening.
The car door slams, and then he’s at my side, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, like we’re the best of friends.
“You probably remember the last time I was drunk, actually.” He pauses, raking a hand through his hair, then fixes his gaze on me.
“That night after the Vegas game last year, when I told you about Luke and Abigail…I broke his trust and barely even remember doing it. I promised myself I wouldn’t get drunk anymore,” he says slowly.
“Even if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t anymore, because I can see how much it upsets you. ”
“It’s not, I’m not—” I huff out an annoyed breath, on edge for more reasons than this conversation.
Because his arm is around me.
Because I’ve just insisted that he stay the night.
Because I want him to have his arm around me while he stays the night. And because I don’t like how much he drinks. Or drank, if what he’s saying is true.
“Don’t lie to us both, Michelle,” he says, and I roll my eyes.
“Stop calling me Michelle.”